


reduce, reuse, recycle

by polkaprintpjs



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Infanticide, Mpreg, budding, technically but this is eugenesis style not. typical mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkaprintpjs/pseuds/polkaprintpjs
Summary: let me know what u think plz :Don  tumblr @megatronismegagone
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	reduce, reuse, recycle

He’s in a storeroom down the hall from Swerve’s, alone in the dark. 

It’s dark but for his bio-lights and the sentio metallico has an oily silver sheen where it dribbles down his torso and puddles around his pedes. It’s too-warm like fresh energon, like molten metal. Like life itself dripping out of his spark chamber. 

Whirl isn’t too proud to admit he’s a little off kilter, here. 

It’s supposed to hurt.

Every broadcast of every budding he’d ever watched had the host howling, curling in on themselves in agony, so why not  _ him _ ? It doesn’t hurt. The pressure had caught him off guard, an internal swelling that he generally associates with being pretty fucked up- but he’d been taking it easy lately. Hell, he’d stuck around long enough for the docs to actually clear him for duty, last time he’d been in medbay. 

He’d ducked into the storeroom when the heat started spreading from his throbbing spark throughout his chassis, and he’d flicked the lights on just long enough to confirm he wasn’t bleeding out before he’d turned them right back off again. 

Well. He’s not bleeding out in the traditional way, anyway. 

The process isn’t supposed to be this slow, he’s pretty sure, supposed to be a fast, dramatic thing, not a drip drip drip in the dark. 

Hell, he shouldn’t have had time  _ to _ hide away before someone caught on. It still doesn’t hurt. 

Faulty sensors in a fucked up frame, maybe? Whatever the reason, he’d almost prefer it hurt. If it hurt he wouldn’t have the processor space to dwell on what the fuck he’s going to do when it’s done and the sparkling is shaking on the floor. 

Calling medbay- nah. Fuck that. Even if he said he’d just found the thing in some corner, they’d just have to look at his fuel levels to know the truth; Whirl can feel his energy draining with every pulse. 

Can’t just stuff it in the incinerator, he’d be seen on the way down and the fallout would be- messy. 

What does he do. 

What can he do. 

He wobbles to a crouch, ducks his helm to wheeze. Shit. 

Still no pain, still no plan. What to do. 

What had hosts done Before?

…..Had the spawn taken away and were stuffed out of sight, monitored to produce more workers, most likely.

Fuck. 

Okay. 

When he’d been a cop, a Senate thug, what had the leakers done? 

A wave of heat pulses through him again, shorts out his vision. 

What were the rumors? They’d drained anybody with wet lines, no matter how young. Whirl can’t remember any sparklings being found, doesn’t remember hearing it in passing. 

One of the instructors at the flight academy had made a joke about it, once.  _ If you bud midair, don’t bother transforming _ . 

Ha, ha. Real fucking funny. 

The oilslick shimmer started to gather, roiling on itself. There, the shape of a pede, and there, the arc of a rotor. Aww, a copter just like its host, the little parasite. 

It smoothes out after an instant, undecided. He can see the yellow glow of his optic outlining the shape it’s coalescing to. 

Anybody with wet lines. 

It ain’t pretty, but he shifts from hunching over the puddle of sentio metallico to kneeling over it. His fuel level triggers an auto-ping: 37% and dropping. 

The silver glimmer-grit trails down his thighs to drip off his knees. 

The parasite’s thrashing in its cocoon of his life, testing shapes even as it’s fed. The shine is mesmerizing, a little. 

The intake on his arm has a tube, strong and flexible. The slime isn’t thick enough to clog it, else he’d have to find a plan D. 

Whirl takes a minute to be grateful he can’t taste with this secondary intake, doesn’t have to know the scent and weight of his spark’s essence dribbling down his throat. 

No muss, there’s no fuss. 

Right? 

It’s melting onto itself as he drinks, soft silver mushing together as he siphons it back where it belongs. 

The weight in his tanks is terrible, a feeling of emptiness and overfullness he can hardly stand. 

His energy level ticks back up, tick tick tick with every methodic psuedo-swallow he forces down.

He’s in a storeroom down the hall from Swerve’s, alone in the dark. 

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what u think plz :D  
> on tumblr @megatronismegagone


End file.
